on the occasion of my 16th birthday
fingers through my porous angel food channels,
irrigates and stiffens me like white-matter.
I am nothing if not a foundation of chalk,
whipped velveteen by all the air contained in a year,
set on porcelain like a frosting of kunstwerk and confined to a glasswork bell.
I nod whitely at my reflection and momentarily relent a chiffon sigh.
soon a waxwork craniotomy will set off an awkwardness of song.
what a shame if my flesh, embroidered in paraffin and ice,
became unfastened and embraced the finality of molar?
consumed in another ritual of life and a casualty of its own immaterial and sweetness.
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